


Orange

by Churbooseanon



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Paintball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1985682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes they get together and make trouble. Sometimes it blows up in their faces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orange

It takes them a month and more credits than they want to part with to get the supplies. The simple fact of the matter is the Four Seven Niner isn’t afraid of them. Should be, they all know she should be, /she/ knows she should be, but she’s hauled their asses out of the fire too many times to even flinch. The bargaining is tough, sacrifices are made, and it takes a damn month before the box appears in an unassigned locker in the general locker room that she uses to slip smuggled goods to the Freelancers. A box with Florida’s name on it, just to give it that extra security, to keep prying eyes like York’s out of it.

Reggie smiles when Butch shows up in the middle of the night, box tucked under one arm, and murder in his eyes.

"It’s here."

"Yep."

They set up in one of the longest corridors on the MoI. A long stretch interrupted by blast doors at regular lengths to prevent depressurization from spreading too far. Set up behind a pile of crates left there overnight before being moved to wherever they belong. Wyoming lays stretchd out on top of one, rifle braced before him, checking along the sight, invisible to the corridor because of the boxes to one side, the box in front. He’s a small point of white and gold helmet broken up by some black powder Florida made by stealing South’s eyebrow pencil and grinding it all the way down. A small point of dusty black over white and gold and the long muzzle of a sniper rifle interrupted by a scope and a strange, scoop shaped feeder that Florida had filled with orange pellets.

Florida sets up beside him, twitching one of the smaller boxes aside, fully armored, playing with the optics settings on his HUD.

"I’ve got York," Florida whispers over the comm, even though Reggie is less than two feet away.

"Agent York confirmed. Distance?"

"Three hundred and four feet. Negligible."

"Wind speed?"

"Null."

An amused edge filters into Wyoming’s voice. “Where should I put it?”

Florida just smirks at the question. “Shoot him a smilie face.”

"Oh my, that is a good one, isn’t it?" Wyoming laughs, and Florida watches him, watches the tension in that armored body, for half a second too long. Forgets to spot. Looks back and sees her a second too late because Wyoming has squeezed the trigger and he doesn’t have Florida’s angle around the blast doors and doesn’t see the flash of aqua.

Neither of them move as everything in the corridor goes still, including Carolina, with a spot of brilliant orange paint exploded on the back of her helmet.

"Abort!" Florida hisses into the comm and he’s running.

This time, just this once, he’s willing to leave Wyoming to the wolves. If only to delay how long it will be until Carolina gets to him.


End file.
